


Living It Down -- Living It Up

by ljs



Series: the Eve stories [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, Post-Skyfall, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eve Moneypenny and her university friend Anthea go out for lunch. Old sores and new enemies happen, with James Bond and Mycroft Holmes in the mix.</p><p>(Set 9 months after "Compensations.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Living It Down -- Living It Up

“Off for lunch, Miss Moneypenny?”

At James's words, Eve looked up from buttoning her light jacket, and inwardly sighed. She'd _told_ him not to call her that. Yet she wasn't one to give her feelings away, as it were, and so her reply was casual. “As you see. Have you finished your report on the Belarusian...difficulty?”

Across the office Tanner and Q erupted in laughter, at which she did blink. Usually only the direst emergency roused them from their own noontime game of Wotsit (which invented pastime involved the grids of the millenial edition of the London A to Z, a flipped pound coin, and random mathematical noises), but then the idea of 007 filling out the requisite paperwork on a truly spectacular cockup in Minsk _was_ funny. James, still in the doorway, frowned at them before gazing back at her. “Not quite. Would you like to help? Hold my hand, perhaps?”

“Take your dictation, you mean,” she said dryly. “No.”

“Not even a 'no, thank you'?” He took a step in, aiming that killer smile her direction.

This time she let her sigh loose. “Finish your work, Commander Bond.” Then she glanced over at Tanner, who grinned cheerfully back at her. “I should be back by two, but text me if the call from Bitter comes in.”

He nodded, and then turned back to the broken-backed A to Z just as the innermost door opened. 

“Ah, 007. I thought I heard you,” M said. “Do come in – I rather think our Mr H will want to talk to you. It's his day, you know.”

James's look at Eve managed to combine narrowed eyes and a slight hint of a masculine pout. She blinked in seemingly innocent surprise, and picked up her bag, preparatory to a quick escape. With M looming on the other side of the office, surely James would give way – 

“Be there in a moment, sir,” James said, “I have one or two questions for Miss Moneypenny.”

M surveyed them with weary eyes, and then smoothed back his already smooth hair. “I don't suppose I could stop you,” he said crisply, “but you _will_ join me presently. You have explanations to make.”

“Yes, M.” James almost sounded sincere, but he was already gesturing Eve forward in a move she didn't mistake for a moment as gentlemanly.

As soon as they were out in the corridor, he stopped her with a hand to her shoulder. She considered several possible and slightly painful ways to make him step back, but contented herself with, “I'm meeting Anthea for lunch in five minutes, James, so say whatever you wish to say quickly.”

“Did you know Mycroft was coming?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And you didn't warn me?”

She absently straightened his slightly crooked red tie. “No. Just to remind you – I am not now, nor will I ever be, your secretary.”

“Miss Moneypenny, dear Miss Moneypenny,” he said, his voice going slightly husky. “I had assumed you were my ally.”

“James, dear James, whatever gave you that idea?” She kissed the tips of her fingers and then brushed them against his lips. “And now I really must go.”

His hand on her shoulder tightened caressingly. “I've missed you, Eve. It's been a long time since we had one of our... intra-office exchanges.”

Three months, she thought. A rainy night, a shared cab from Vauxhall Cross to Marylebone, her flat and a bottle of a nice St Emilion, a chain of love-bites that had taken two weeks to fade, a memory of a series of orgasms that had warmed her for several more weeks. She smiled. “Oh, surely not that long.”

As the lift doors at the end of the corridor opened, she twisted out of his hold, then headed briskly for the escape hatch – 

Where Mycroft Holmes, immaculate as usual, was sauntering out. He inclined his head. Cordial yet distant, because this was MI6 and not his and Anthea's St James flat, where she'd been invited to Sunday brunch a fortnight ago, along with Gregory, that sweet grey-haired detective from Scotland Yard: “Good day, Eve.”

“Good day, Mr Holmes.” She calibrated her smile and nod to the occasion and his preference for public formality. 

He held the lift door open so she could slip inside. As she went by, he said quietly, “Anthea's waiting for you on Vauxhall Bridge.”

Which was odd, since they didn't work in the same office – “She came with you?”

The doors closed before he could answer, but not before Eve took in his slightly furrowed brow.

Which, once she made her way out of the many layers of security protecting the new Vauxhall Cross, out into the thin May sunshine, and across the road to her friend, made her greeting brief. “Anth! What the hell's going on?”

Anthea smiled, linked arms, and began to shepherd them both over Vauxhall Bridge. “Evie, whatever makes you think something's wrong?”

Eve surveyed Anthea, who was as ever professionally armoured and perfectly perfect. “Because you and Mycroft came together, and because Mycroft's forehead screamed 'trouble.'”

Anthea's smile disappeared as if the wind off the Thames had blown it away. “Did it?”

“Yes. I know you can't share much, but – anything I should know about?”

“You likely know the part that pertains to Six, but otherwise... I'm not sure.” 

They kept walking, arm in arm, not speaking. Eve glanced at the river, its water rippling grey, before looking back at Anthea. “Anth,” she said with a friendly nudge, “still thinking of the Tate Britain cafe? We could collect a few nibbles and eat in the riverside park instead.”

Anthea laughed. “ _There's_ danger, Evie.. us and picnics. Second year, Hilary term, the alcoholic madness in the meadows – with the _horrible_ cake.”

“Oh, God, we were sick for--”

“ _Days_ ,” they chimed together, and laughed. But Anthea was still tense, Eve realised.

Once they crossed Millbank, Anthea pulled Eve to a stop. A moment of chewing on her lip – so rare for Anthea to give anything away like that – before she said, “Right. Evie, there's been some chatter among the groups we watch. Noise, some of my section think, but I'm not convinced, we've had too many independent hits. Something's planned for London.”

“Act of terror?” Eve said. She felt the cool April wind at her back as she spoke. She didn't allow herself to shiver.

“Possibly. The thing is, the informers don't know what, they also don't know _who_. I've sent out three teams for recon, Mycroft's been pulling various strings, and all we've heard is... is a statement to be made, an outside hire, and the river.”

Eve glanced at the Thames again – walls near; the rise of the restored MI6 headquarters on the other side; in between, the tidal water. It smelled deceptively fresh today, all the garbage submerged. “On? Or by?”

“Inconclusive. But also buried in the chatter – 'museum.' The pattern also suggested art.”

Eve laughed. “Oh, Anth, so _that's_ why you wanted to lunch at the Tate. Have a quick look-round, see what there is to see.” She nudged Anthea again. “You do know you're supposed to be a spymaster now, seeing everything from a distance?”

“Mycroft always says that for us, London is a battlefield.” Anthea looked at Eve, made sure there was eye contact. “And Vauxhall Cross is as much a part of that as Thames House and Whitehall are. Just as much a target, just as much a home of us assassins. We all walk in the shadow-world. You know this.”

She didn't say more, but then she didn't have to. They had gone out for drinks after work several months ago, and one martini into the evening, Eve had spilled out James's biting assessment that fieldwork wasn't for everyone, meaning Eve in particular. Anthea – best friend ever – had just listened to the whole unhappy story, Turkey and the taken shot and the aftermath, and then said, “Well, fuck James Bond anyway,” and when Eve had said, “I already did,” they'd collapsed into laughter and their second martinis. But although the poisonous doubt James's words had left had lessened thanks to work and friendship, it hadn't disappeared entirely.

Eve looked over her shoulder at Vauxhall Cross, shimmering, shifting colour under passing cloud. Then she shrugged. “You're right. So let's have lunch and a look-round.”

“That's the spirit,” Anthea said, and struck out briskly for the Tate. Eve matched her, stride for stride.

They began talking of idle things – a sale at Mulberry, the latest Zadie Smith novel, a new brand of fair-trade chocolate to which Anthea was addicted. But Eve knew that they both were watching. They both were ready.

Or so she thought, until she saw a man emerging from the maze of hoardings around the Tate entrance, and her breath caught.

Anthea noticed. “What?” 

“White man, builder's clothes, backpack seemingly empty, black hair, about to cross the street. It's Andrej the Ghost.” 

“The Belarusian mistake, the one who got away,” Anthea whispered. Mycroft _had_ been talking, Eve thought – confirmed by Anthea's “Speciality is chemical contamination of air ducts.” 

One shared look at each other, one silent acknowledgment of the damage that could be done, and they were already moving, mobiles out and in their hands. Anthea headed toward the Tate Britain; Eve went after Andrej. 

Foreign national. MI6's job. _Her_ job.

The traffic gods were smiling on her. Andrej was stopped in the centre island, waiting for the next light, close enough to shadow, far enough away he wouldn't hear her. 

Tanner picked up on the second ring: “Eve?”

“The Ghost is here, on Millbank. I have visual, and am following. Alert the troops.”

A muffled commotion, then Tanner said, “On speaker now. Say it again?”

She imagined the scene in the office: M and Mycroft hovering; Q probably clutching his mug of tea; Bond.... Oh hell. There would be James, who somehow had lost the Ghost in that sudden fog in Minsk, lost three months' worth of a field-agent's preparation and a metric fucktonne of hard data. This time he'd not be likely to lose his target. 

As the light changed, she repeated, “The Ghost is here. I have visual. Am following. He came from the Tate Britain – Anthea's there.” She hurried across, then, altering her voice as she drew closer to Andrej, as she saw where he was going, “Darling, you know how I _do_ like the Tate to Tate river taxi, it'll get me there quickest. See you on the other side.” 

“Yes, Miss Moneypenny, you will,” James said over a flurry of background noise, and then Tanner, “Is voice still possible?”

“Not really, darling. Text me if you need,” Eve said. She stepped onto the platform leading to the dock. “The boat's almost here. Bye.”

Andrej was standing on the dock, staring at the oncoming boat. Eve assessed the situation: a few civilians, grey-haired tourists mostly with their bulging camera bags and sensible shoes; a Thames Clipper worker waiting for the exchange. She recalled the briefing papers on Minsk, the notes that said Andrej didn't usually carry a gun. Of course, first time for everything....

Her mobile vibrated. Text. _Don't engage target. Survey only, per M. T_ Then, within seconds, another. _Cameras have you and the target, Moneypenny. We'll keep watch as well. Q_

She smiled as if to herself, flicked a glance up at the discreetly mounted surveillance camera, then looked back – 

To see Andrej gazing at her. 

She glanced away, then down at her mobile. He shouldn't be able to identify her, at least she didn't think so, but she also didn't need to call attention to herself. She felt his attention, however, as a palpable thing, a scraped nail on the spine. 

Text. _You've no problems paying for the boat if asked, you've enough on your Oyster card. Q_

Cheeky, invasive little git.

The boat was almost at the dock. Keeping her mobile clutched in her hand – no need to risk Andrej seeing the screen – she moved up behind him in the queue. A couple of dozen people on the boat were already sorting themselves for the arrival; the tourists moved in behind her, chattering about some exhibit at the Tate Modern. She'd only been there once, years ago. The Louise Bourgeois spiders had fascinated her....

“You like this ride?” Andrej said to her, over his shoulder.

She summoned the cheerful, almost manic voice he'd have overheard. “Hiya, yeah, it's fabulous. And faster than the Tube!” Which could in fact be a problem, if the boys ran into traffic....

“So, just a ride on the river,” he said. His accent was subtle, but there. “Why do you like it?”

“You can see so much from here! Parliament, the London Eye, all the sights. That's what I like,” she said brightly.

“Good,” he said, and then stepped behind her. She didn't think he'd rumbled her, but....

As the Thames Clipper worker waved them forward, her mobile rang again. Watching her feet and her balance, moving forward with Andrej all but breathing down her neck, she checked the number – one of Six's secured phones – and answered, “Yes?”

“Do be careful, Miss Moneypenny,” James said. “I'll want to take him myself.”

“You say the sweetest things, darling, I almost believe you care,” she said. Inside the boat now – she stepped aside to let Andrej and the rest of the queue find seats. 

The Ghost waited for a long moment until the murmurs of the tourists pushed him forward. But even then he dropped into a seat only a row ahead, and angled himself so he could still see her.

Noise on the other end of the line, and then Tanner: “You weren't supposed to talk to him!”

“Darling boy, you do have a habit of asking for six impossible things before breakfast.”

The boat began to move. The water was choppier than she'd initially thought, and they rocked a bit on the long, slow turn east. Andrej stood up, braced himself, gazed out at the river.

“Right,” Tanner said in her ear, “we're en route. Bond is driving, so --”

“I'd _love_ a massive drink when I see you,” she said.

She heard road noise before James said, “And you shall have one, Miss Moneypenny. My treat.”

She said, “Never mind. I'll buy my own. Anything else?”

Tanner this time: “We've confirmed with the boat – we're intercepting at the Eye. Let the target get off first, right?”

“I hear you, darling. See you presently.” She clicked, and then put the phone down.

Over the sound of the engines and hum of sightseers, she heard the first thin sounds of sirens from behind them. She turned. Andrej was looking back toward the Tate, frowning slightly. She took a seat where she could still monitor him. He slewed around, frowning more deeply. 

She sent a text to Tanner. _Target suspicious. EM_

Text, almost immediate. _SURVEY ONLY. T_

That emphasis of the warning was James' doing, she suspected. 

Lambeth Bridge was just ahead. She found herself remembering another bridge, a rushing train, the gun slippery in her hands, the shot, the fall of his body which she'd felt in her own. She pushed away the memory just as Andrej stood.

The tannoy rumbled, then a man's voice, almost normal: “We apologize. Trouble with the engines means we must stop at the London Eye pier. Please disembark at the London Eye once the signal is given.”

Andrej began moving, crossing the back of the boat toward the exit. She glanced at the tourists already grumbling and collecting their things, then considered. Andrej would be first off – she should keep the rest of the passengers back, lest Andrej do something stupid (or 007 start shooting). After putting away her phone, she followed.

Past Lambeth Bridge now. Victoria Tower Gardens to the left, the golden glow of Parliament approaching; Westminster Bridge rapidly nearing. The Eye loomed on the right, beyond the Bridge.

Andrej hesitated for a moment, then stepped out onto the small deck. Eve stayed in the doorway, blocking passage. 

Westminster Bridge, a brief moment of shadowy dark underneath – 

And she saw Andrej was going to jump. She made her own leap.

Her hand clasped his wrist just as he began his fall. A jolt she felt from hand to shoulder to feet planted on the water-slicked surface; a flash of iron and stone support, not near enough for him to reach. He pulled. She held fast.

Out from the shadows, and she saw a glint of silver in his free hand. A knife.

“I will use this if you don't let go,” he said.

“No, you won't.”

The boat rocked hard on an unseen wave. Her feet slipped. He pulled again, almost escaping her grasp, but she caught him again. This time he turned, the blade clear now, coming for her.

She was close enough – she kneed him in the balls. He collapsed, taking her down with him. Wet deck, hot breath, dark of the pier coming on.

Another glint of metal from the pier, a different kind of shadow in grey with a splash of red. James had made it in time.

“ _Don't_ take the shot!” she managed to shout, and then kneed the Ghost again just as he punched. She felt the contact on her cheekbone, felt her head then hitting the deck. Fuck that – her elbow went into his neck hard. His knife skittered away.

A thud nearby, the boat rocking again with the impact. “Got him, thank you, Miss Moneypenny,” James said, and then pulled Andrej up. A flurry of Russian curses was interrupted by James' fist. No, she thought slightly woozily, more like fists, plural.

She was sitting up when the boat collided with the pier and was caught. Tanner was the first on board. After a quick glance to make sure that James had the Ghost secure, he turned to Eve. “Surveillance _only_ , I said.”

“I never answered you, did I?” she said. “Now help me up.”

…........................................

“Are you sure you wouldn't like to share a late supper with us? You and I never did get lunch.”

Eve smiled across the darkened town-car at Anthea. “Car service back to my flat is more than enough, thank you both.”

“Well, it's been quite a day,” Anthea said. Then, dryly, “And Mycroft will no doubt take this opportunity to drop in on his little brother and recreationally harass him.”

Eve could just see a smile twitch the corners of Mycroft's mouth – he was sitting between them – but he kept his attention on his tablet as he said, “No, my dear. He's still in Dartmoor. Something about a racehorse and a dog that didn't bark.” 

“Not to worry, Anth. I need to ice my bruises in private and inhale a ready-meal, possibly while watching something mindless on Sky--”

Her phone vibrated at that moment. Text, from James' private mobile. _I owe you a drink and dinner, Miss M. 212 Baker Street, Penthouse Flat. Q says you're right around the corner._ Ten seconds, and then another text, same number. _Please._

“Or, um, the driver could drop me off at 212 Baker Street?” Eve finished, feeling slightly guilty.

Anthea and Mycroft exchanged looks (which telepathic exchange could be _so_ annoying, Eve thought, they'd been doing it all evening whilst Thames House and Vauxhall Cross negotiated who had first interrogation rights for the Ghost). “Of course, Evie,” Anthea said. “And we'll try again to have lunch next week.”

“Who knows what trouble the two of you will find then?” Mycroft said smoothly, and leaned forward and gave the new address to the driver.

The night air was unseasonably cold when she stepped out of the town-car. The north wind slapped her awake – what was she _thinking_? What was _James_ thinking? They really shouldn't disturb the delightful equilibrium of their relationship....

Phone. Text. _I see you, Eve. Come on up._

Yes, there in the penthouse window stood a shadowy figure she knew. Knew his shoulders, knew his killer's smile, knew the way his cock twitched when she pushed him down, knew the careful way he washed her back when they showered together, knew the glint in his eyes when she'd scored off him. She'd caught him gazing at her this evening while across the room M bellowed at Sir Harry Pearce: fond, amused, respectful, with just a bit of that annoyed glint.

Smiling, she went inside and up all the way.

He opened his front door before she could knock. “Come in --”

“If you call me 'Miss Moneypenny' tonight, James, you will regret it forever more.”

On his laugh she kissed his cheek, then let him draw her in. His space was cool, open, 60s modern – low furniture, a cushiony rug on bare floors. In front of the sofa, a glass occasional table displayed several cartons of Chinese takeaway, two champagne flutes, and an ice bucket with a bottle just visible. Hidden speakers poured out 60s Brasilian jazz. 

She began to laugh at the perfectly ridiculous, ridiculously perfect setting for seduction, letting the humour soothe all her little aches, and he slipped his arm around her waist. “Only the best for you, Eve.” His mouth brushed against her ear, sweetly. A whisper: “Or is the proper name 'M' to be?” With his teeth he lightly tugged on her earlobe, then, “You made the right call today.”

She leaned back against him and let her eyelids flutter down, just for a moment. This was likely as close as she'd ever get to an apology from him. And yet she didn't need one, not just because she didn't think he'd ever bring up her fitness for the field again. She knew her capabilities for the shadow-world.

Then a deep breath, and she turned in his arms. “Do you know--” she kissed-bit his lower lip – “I really prefer my Chinese food cold.” 

“Good intel.” Without warning he pulled her down to the floor. She went willingly enough – 

But took over, straddling him, as soon as they were both down. “I'll be calling the shots tonight, James,” she said as she slid her hands under his jumper, found those amazing abs of his, slipped further down to where he was already hardening.

He tipped his head back, eyes closing as she stroked. “And I expect you always will, M.”


End file.
